EPILOGUE
One month later…
Soft, golden light slanted through the curtains, warming the tangled furs of their bed. Spring had finally come to Lewis.
Enya lay still, barely breathing. Her head rested on Harald’s chest, his heart beat a steady, thundering rhythm beneath her ear.Safe. Safe. Safe.It was the only clock she needed now. The only sound that mattered in a world that had once been so loud with screams.
She traced a faint, jagged scar on his ribs. Her touch was light, a silent caress for every wound he had taken.
She felt a new kind of weight within her. It was a shimmering secret tucked deep beneath her ribs. A new flame. The feeling was so fragile it made her ache. Her eyes stung with a sudden, happy heat. She pressed her face closer to his skin, memorizing the scent of him—salt, woodsmoke, and home.
Harald shifted, his breath hitching as he transitioned from sleep to the waking world. His arm tightened around her waist, hauling her flush against his heat.
"Ye’re awake," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that she felt more in her own chest than her ears. "And ye’re thinking. I can hear the gears grinding from here, Enya."
"I am nae thinking," she lied effortlessly, her lips twitching into a dry smile against his skin. "I was merely wondering if the great Hawk o’ Lewis was ever going tae wake up, or if I’d have tae run the perimeter meself today."
Harald let out a low, vibrating chuckle that shook them both. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his beard scratchy and warm. "Ye go, then. I’ll stay here. The bed is warm, and the lady is… remarkably tolerable today."
"Tolerable?" Enya arched a brow, though he couldn't see it. She felt a surge of that fierce heat that always flared when he touched her—a mix of protective love and a vulnerability that still frightened her. "I’ll have ye ken that I am the highlight o’ yer existence. Without me, ye’d be back tae scowling at walls."
"Aye," he whispered, his tone suddenly losing its edge of humor and turning into something raw. He pulled back just enough to look at her. His dark eyes searched hers with that worshipping focus she had grown to crave. "I would be."
She looked at him, and for a heartbeat, the air in the room felt thick with everything she hadn't said. The secret inside her leaped, a pulse of pure joy.
"Harald," she whispered, her voice catching. She reached up, her palm framing his jaw, her thumb brushing the rough stubble there. "There is... something I need tae tell ye.”
His brow furrowed, his gaze instantly sharpening with that familiar, protective intensity. "What is it?"
She opened her mouth, the truth trembling on her tongue, but the words were snatched away.
The sharp, rhythmic hammer of hooves shattered the silence. Then came the blast—a shrill, brassy horn that tore through the morning air like a jagged blade.
"The king’s men," Harald muttered, the soft light in his eyes vanishing as the laird returned. "They’re early."
Harald was moving before the sound had even faded.
"They’re annoying," Enya corrected, rolling out of the furs with a groan. She caught sight of herself in the polished silver mirror—hair a wild thicket, eyes bright with a mix of lingering sleep and sudden nerves.
"If it’s Henry, I swear tae the Saints, I’ll give him a piece o' me mind he willnae soon forget," she muttered, tugging a comb through a knot. "If he so much as breathes a rude word in this hall, I’ll have him wishing he’d stayed in the south with his silks and his scented water.”
"Dress, love," Harald said, though a ghost of a smile touched his lips as he pulled on his tunic. "We’ve a prisoner tae hand over."
Harald moved with the efficiency of a soldier, his presence filling the room as he buckled his belt. Enya watched him, her heart still full of the secret she hadn't shared, before turning to her own task.
They moved in a silent, practiced dance of leather and wool, armoring themselves for the world outside their door. By thetime they descended the spiral stairs, the soft warmth of the bed was a memory, replaced by the cold, biting reality of the keep.
The great hall was drafty, despite the roaring hearth. Enya stood beside Harald, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Outwardly, she was the picture of a composed lady—chin tilted, spine a rigid line of defiance. Inwardly, she felt every nerve ending was exposed.
The heavy doors creaked open, and in walked the royal convoy. At their head was Lord Henry, in a flamboyant velvet doublet. He stepped in with overdone elegance.
"Laird Alvsson! Lady Enya!" Henry called to them. He bowed low.
"We are delighted ye survived the trip, Henry," Enya said, her voice smooth and dry. She caught Harald’s hand twitching by his side and knew he was fighting the urge to toss the man back into the sea.
Henry blinked, sensing the bite beneath the words but unable to pin it down. "Quite! Aye! Now, regarding the business o’ the Crown?—"
He was interrupted by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the stone stairs.
